FRAUS | Goddess of Treachery and Fraud
Fraus helped Juno murder one of the lovers of her husband, Jupiter, with an enchanted girdle. She was often depicted with the body of a snake and the sting of a scorpion.
The graffiti had been erased by the afternoon but I returned home to an increasingly familiar sight. A police car lurked at the top of my drive.
Caleb… the four-wheel drive… Sean…
My mind was out of control, making incompatible links. The familiar crew of reporters was there too. Sadie Riley pushed herself to the front as I pulled in. ‘Phoebe!’ Her high heels were unsuitable for ashes and soot. She held out her arms, as though we were friends. My front door was closed but not locked. Caleb was in there.
‘Hello?’ I called, walking in. The police were inside too.
In the living room, PC Milla Jackson standing at his side, Caleb clutched his face. The near-black of the police uniforms was incongruous against Claire’s pink floral decorating scheme. Detective Feng saw me and stepped quickly in my direction.
‘What’s happening?’ I demanded.
‘Mr Wharton is being questioned.’ Milla looked sympathetic. ‘You can observe if you’re quiet.’
Detective Feng showed me his open palms, proving honesty. ‘We can take him to the station.’
He meant an interrogation room. I’d seen those on a school excursion, and on TV. ‘No! Here will do.’
I kept my distance. Detective Feng sat next to Caleb. Milla stepped closer to me, as though she was unsure how I’d behave. ‘The CFA taught you a lot about fire? You know how it spreads? You know the creek bed was dangerously low ground?’
‘Lots of people know this.’
‘Describe how you felt about the fossicker’s hut being destroyed.’
Caleb finally looked at me. ‘It hasn’t really been a hut for years.’
Detective Feng was officious, thumb threaded into the side of his belt. ‘We’re giving you one more opportunity to explain where you were that day.’
‘I was… down at the mumble.’ Caleb stared at the floor.
‘Down at the what?’ Detective Feng rubbed his moustache.
‘Caleb, don’t speak,’ I said, remembering my mother’s warnings. ‘Not without a lawyer.’
Milla looked sad. Hong Feng stood.
‘Caleb Wharton, you are being arrested on suspicion of arson causing death,’ he said. ‘You do not have to say or do anything but anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
Caleb held my eye for a long, scared moment. ‘Yes.’
‘You may communicate with a friend or a relative to inform that person of your whereabouts. You may communicate with a legal practitioner.’
‘What happens now?’ I demanded.
‘He’ll be taken to the police station,’ Milla replied.
‘I’ll come too,’ I said stupidly. ‘Can’t I drive him there? In my car?’
‘Not this time, Ms Wharton. No.’
‘Can I call his lawyer?’
‘You can do anything you like, Ms Wharton. We’re not arresting you.’
I followed them through the house. I stood, helpless, while Caleb was pushed into the back seat of a police car. ‘Mum. I’m being arrested,’ he said, as if I might not have noticed, or words could make it more real.
‘Don’t speak until your lawyer gets there.’
He looked worried. ‘The garbage goes out on Wednesdays,’ he reminded me. ‘Don’t forget to lock the kitchen door.’
When had he become so sensible?
Milla drove them off, leaving me. Sadie and the rest of her pack followed. Through her curtains, Rosie watched my nightmare.
I’d known he might be arrested but it was still a terrible, shocking thing, like a child’s first experience of death. Walking inside, I rang Douglas.
His secretary answered. ‘Mr Anderson is in court but can be passed a message.’
Lawyers might control a crisis in your life, but to them, you’re simply one of many clients. Genevieve and Stephen were the same. By the time Douglas called back, I was frantic. ‘Caleb’s been arrested!’
‘Did you hear the charges?’ he asked. ‘Do you understand?’
Anger rippled through me. ‘Not like a lawyer would.’
Douglas said he’d heard Penelope was speaking with the police that day and that he’d go to Caleb. I rang Stephen to explain, and tried to sound rational.
‘I’ll call contacts at the DPP to see what I can find out,’ he promised.
In my imagination, Stephen made that phone call, and this was all fixed. But my imagination was not to be trusted. It taunted me. While I waited for him to call back, I drove to Brunton Police Station. Now my mind conjured Caleb in a room of concrete, like the base of a skateboard rink, with window bars and a heavy lock. Caleb hated being locked in his bedroom.
Stephen returned my call as I neared Brunton. He had no more specific details but said the arrest would follow a normal course.
‘Normal!’ I repeated, shocked. ‘What is normal?’
‘First, there’ll be a court appearance tomorrow. Later, a committal hearing where a magistrate decides if there’s enough evidence to go to trial.’
‘So this can be the end of things?’ My head ached.
Stephen spoke slowly, like I was a young student. ‘If the evidence is weak.’
I had once imagined hope as a flame, growing. A memory nearly overwhelmed me. Caleb’s arrest was a crisis like the PAN when Jack’s engine was nearly engulfed by fire. I wasn’t sure how it could be survived. That image was lost to me now. ‘The evidence is weak,’ I insisted. ‘It has to be. Caleb didn’t do it.’
‘We’ll know more after the hearing.’ He sounded impersonal, like Caleb was no more than a client. Ironic, given how little he did to help.
‘I’ll know more soon,’ I told him. ‘I’m nearly at the police station.’
‘They probably won’t let you see him. He’s legally an adult, Phoebe. Eighteen.’
Stephen was right. The receptionist said I couldn’t see him until he’d moved to the Remand Centre, probably tomorrow. Only a lawyer could visit him that night.
I called Douglas again, from the police station car park. He promised he’d meet me at the Remand Centre in the morning and told me to go home. Lawyers were beating me. I went home. Reporters had left only cigarette butts and fast food wrappers. Our home was no longer the centre of the story – news had moved on. I parked on the detritus. My phone buzzed. Had Stephen or Douglas fixed anything?
No. It was an email from Marco, who cared about me but didn’t know what was happening. As usual, he’d been prodding the earth for the secrets it would whisper if he hit just the right place. He sent photos of a recent find, a shrine showing the manufacture of Jupiter’s lightning bolts. Once again Marco ended his email with a message to Skype when I could.
I needed a distraction. Marco answered and launched into a conversation about Jupiter. Jupiter became fascinated with fire as a child raised by sea nymphs, then married Venus and built a forge under Mount Etna that erupted when Venus was unfaithful.
‘You’re troubled,’ he noticed, eventually. Our long friendship gave him illicit access to my thoughts. ‘Something about Caleb? It can’t be easy, being a mum. Think of all those Roman parent/child relationships. Marcus Aurelius…’ Marcus was a great philosopher and Emperor but his lustful, incompetent son Commodious almost brought the empire down. ‘And Agrippina… Phoebe, you’re not all right, are you? You’re so quiet.’
I didn’t know how to react.
‘There are big problems?’ Marco kept going. ‘Nero’s only daughter died, remember. As a baby. Then he kicked his wife to death when she was pregnant. A bad son and a bad father.’
‘A bad son isn’t my problem.’
It had been a mistake to call, emphasising my failure. Marco rescued history from the prison of time, but I couldn’t rescue my own son at all.
I disconnected. I turned on the television. Everything was a mistake, feeding my misery and obsession. The news channel showed a city funeral for one more of the released dead. I stared at a cathedral statue and vowed I wouldn’t be the Pieta, weeping over my son’s sacrificed body. I would save him.
‘Offer bail!’ I yelled at Stephen over the phone. ‘Why is Caleb still in jail?’
‘Bail isn’t something you offer.’ Stephen tried to sound reasonable. ‘It’s only been a few hours. We’ll do this.’
I hated him, and while I wanted to be asleep, I speculated insanely. Could Caleb have been forced to do this? By whom? Why? How? What could he be blackmailed about? Not sex or drugs. No one cared about that stuff. Not anymore. Something to do with Stephen? ‘Could clients of yours want to hurt him like this?’
‘You’re clutching at straws. Phoebe, be reasonable. I have uncovered one lead to pursue. Apparently, as a child, John Zynda was involved in an incident with matches…’
What? When exactly had he planned on sharing this?
‘Phoebe, you need to stop calling. It’s only 6 am. I need sleep. We can’t do anything else until morning.’
More than one person could talk to Sadie Riley. I was desperate. I’d take a chance. The newspaper receptionist sounded tired, which wasn’t my fault. It was nearly 7 am, and he – clearly – was paid to work nightshift. He heard my name and transferred me, presumably to Sadie’s mobile.
‘Hello, Phoebe.’ Sadie drew my name out in emotions varying from scepticism to hope.
I’d chased her from my house, more than once. But I was Caleb’s mother. ‘I need to tell you what I’ve discovered.’
‘Is this on the record?’
‘Yes. I’ve been researching arsonists. Psychologists suggest lots of reasons. Fake insurance claims. Paedophiles destroying evidence. People with grudges.’ I considered convincing her of my research credentials by sharing a story about a team that, centuries after Pliny fled Pompeii, discovered erotic drawings and worked out where brothels had been, which services offered. I managed to stop myself. Sadie didn’t need to think I was hysterical. ‘Evidence against Caleb has been pretty well planned. Someone’s put real effort into that.’
‘You think he’s being framed?’
‘I think a lot of politicians would prefer people to think about arsonists than about what they’re not doing.’
‘I need a unique angle, and my editor doesn’t want stories complaining about ministers or climate change. Says they’re too political.’
‘If someone lit fires, then that’s still a story, whether or not climate change is real. Have you heard of John Zynda?’
‘I’ll check my notes.’
‘John’s a firebug.’
‘Right.’
‘He likes lighting fires. He’s done it before. The investigators should be checking up on him. They’re incompetent. Maybe even corrupt.’
On the other end of the line, I heard the click of a cigarette lighter. Sadie was smoking. Hopefully this meant she was thinking, taking this seriously.
‘You’re making a lot of allegations. Do you have any evidence?’
‘He has a history of lighting fires. He should have a criminal record.’
‘You mean he doesn’t? I’m confused. You say there’s evidence, but no criminal record. How can that be?’
‘It was in the news. I have a link. I’ll read it to you. It’s short. There was a fire at John’s parents’ house. The two front rooms were both destroyed.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The article doesn’t name him. You can’t name someone, can you, if they’re still a child? But listen to this. Police say the fire was traced to curtains in the front room being set alight by the youngest family member playing with fire.’
‘Youngest son? His father’s lighter? When was this?’
‘A while. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve read the research. People who light fires never stop. It’s a sexual orientation. Like being a paedophile.’
‘How old was John?’
‘Well he was four. He was here in the valley that day. And he likes to light fires.’
‘It’s interesting information. I’ll see what I can make of it. You’ll be telling Douglas Anderson, too?’
‘I’ve emailed him. I’ll be telling everyone.’
‘It might be more useful to me as an exclusive.’
‘I’m more concerned about what’s useful for Caleb.’
It was nearly a reasonable time to leave to visit him. I couldn’t check on Caleb so I stared past his empty bed into the outside world. Green shoots and moss sprang from ashes near the dead manna gum’s outstretched limbs. An occasional breeze through Caleb’s curtains brought the ghost of smoke back to life. Mother Nature herself was an arsonist.
I parked my car in the nearest car park to the Yarra Remand Centre, and sat, chewing my nails. I used to feel assertive. I once believed I had the right, any normal mother had the right, to demand access to my son. But if we two were normal, a normal mother, a normal son, I never would have known about the Yarra Remand Centre, would never have needed to visit Caleb here. Eventually it was late enough. I was buzzed through to reception.
Two guards stared at me, bored, behind a Plexiglass screen. One was so obese, the desk cut into his belly. The other persistently scratched his damp armpit.
‘I want to see Caleb Wharton.’
‘Who are you?’ the scratching one asked.
‘I’m his mother.’
‘Where is he?’ one asked the other.
I leaned over the desk. ‘That’s what I’ve asked you.’
The guards crossed arms. ‘Careful, lady. Any closer and you’ll set off an alarm.’
I should have brought Genevieve and her pony-hair wig. I bet she never got treated like this.
‘Do you know which unit he’s in?’ Scratchy asked.
I heard despair creeping into my voice. ‘I know he’s here somewhere.’
Past more cameras and queues and security checks. Past dingy grey offices and overweight men with guns holstered at their sides, I was shown through to Caleb’s cell. Painted the pale yellow of overcooked eggs or urine, its only furniture was a steel toilet bowl lurking in the corner, with no seat or lid.
‘Caleb. Your mother’s here.’
My boy sat on the floor, clutching his knees. His eyes were ringed in pink. His hair had grown since the day of the fire. A clear tidal mark split the fading black of his goth days from his own brown roots.
Trapped in a new world, he was small and exposed. My heart thumped, remembering again: my son. He stood. I hugged him. He let me. Another thump.
I had so many questions. Was he okay? Was he hungry? Hot? Cold? (Sad, I couldn’t ask, I knew.) Caleb nodded and shook his head as required but with a little less enthusiasm each time. My mothering caused his attention to fade completely. Eventually, he pointed at a tiny camera blinking its red eye from the corner. ‘Do you think I’m on suicide watch?’
‘Oh! Caleb!’
‘They’re saying I’ll be locked up for twenty-five years.’
I imagined a succession of Calebs there. Caleb at twenty-five, at thirty, at thirty-five, at forty. Sitting in a cell. Furiously, I blinked the images away. They couldn’t be his future. I wouldn’t allow it.
‘I’m not suicidal. I want pencils,’ he said. ‘Will they let me have them? And paper to draw on.’ One of his teeth was chipped. Newly?
‘Follow me, please,’ said a uniformed guard from the door.
We followed the guard down a urine-coloured hall. ‘They’ll be questioning Penelope,’ I said. ‘I imagine she’ll tell them about her day. Your day.’
He ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin, his baby chin that shouldn’t have stubble. ‘She doesn’t know everything.’
‘I think she believes in you, Caleb.’
He nodded, slowly, and lowered his eyes. ‘Can you get me that paper?’
Once, he swam inside me. I had pushed him out.
Oblivious to the despair rocking through me, the guard ushered us into the visitors’ room. Stephen already sat at a chipboard table. He squirmed as we entered, although perhaps he’d met clients in custody before. And he ran fingers (manicured – he never had manicures when married to me) through his carefully streaked (ditto) hair. Metal chair legs screeched against the tiled floor as I sat next to him.
Caleb leered at us from across the table. ‘Isn’t this great? Just like happy families.’
‘Don’t be like that, Caleb, mate,’ Stephen said.
‘Mate?’ Caleb repeated.
‘So, how are you going?’ Stephen asked.
‘You’re asking how I am, now?’ Caleb demanded. ‘I don’t need you now. You missed the moment when I needed you.’
‘I care about you.’
‘Do you care enough to answer a question?’
‘Go ahead. Fire away.’ It was a line he’d used many times before.
‘When you leave here, are you going home to Mum or Ivy?’
‘Caleb!’ I said, shocked, and too loudly.
Stephen raised his hand, taking ownership of the conversation. ‘My home is with Ivy now. You know that.’
Caleb clenched his fists. ‘You’ll be staying in Hawthorn?’ he persisted. ‘Then I don’t know why you’re here. I’m not part of any family living in Hawthorn.’
Stephen looked bewildered.
‘Ivy doesn’t let him into the house,’ I explained.
Stephen, to do him credit, frowned, horrified. ‘What?’
‘I’ll explain outside.’
Caleb pursed his lips, refusing to speak. He looked meaningfully at my notebook and I passed it to him with my pen. He wrote me a note.
If you want to talk, get Dad to leave.
Seeing it, Stephen picked up his folder and left. I followed. ‘He’ll get over this. He just needs our support.’
He seemed baffled. ‘He has so little respect! He’s his own worst enemy.’
‘Not quite.’ I didn’t want Stephen to be sure what I meant.
‘Ivy doesn’t let him into the house?’ He looked disappointed, like he’d just discovered a new puppy would be hard to train.
‘I think it was only once.’
My anger about being let down drained when I returned to Caleb. Alone, head resting on crossed arms, he looked up at me. ‘Jack would have been a better father,’ he observed.
A jolt ran right through me. He was right. But I was glad Stephen hadn’t heard this.
‘We don’t get to choose family,’ I reminded him. ‘They’re still the most important thing.’
Caleb glanced down. Looking for the right words. For a request? It was a long time since he wanted anything from me. ‘Can Jack visit?’
‘I suppose so—’
‘I…’ Caleb stared at me. ‘I want to talk to Jack. And please email Penelope. Ask how she’s going.’ He told me her new email address.
‘I’ll do that.’ I stared at the folder I always carried. Any time I spoke to Penelope was a chance for information to add to it. Over the laminate table, I grabbed my son’s hand. ‘Will you talk to me, really? Tell me how you are? Explain?’
He was pale, defeated. ‘Mum, you’re fighting too hard.’
‘Fighting too hard?’
‘You’re acting like you really believe I’m innocent.’ My mind flashed through those terrible moments when I’d allowed myself to wonder about his guilt. I shouldn’t have doubts – I wouldn’t allow them.
But I was so confused by his reactions! ‘You are innocent, Caleb!’
‘Am I?’
‘You are not responsible for that fire.’
He sighed, giving in.
‘Caleb?’ I prompted.
‘Mum?’
‘Say it.’
Silence.
‘Caleb. I want to hear you say it.’ What was wrong with him? As recently as the lie detector test, he’d been willing – willing enough to look ridiculous – to take a chance to convince people of his innocence. What had changed? I collapsed further into the seat, staring at my fingers.
A moment later, he hadn’t moved.
‘Caleb, you have a defence to plan. Douglas needs to know how to help you deny these charges.’
‘I’m not sure I want to deny them.’
I froze. I couldn’t respond to that announcement while pretending not to hear it. I didn’t scream. Part of me had begun to expect absurdity.
‘Mum?’ He finally insisted on the eye contact he’d been avoiding.
But now I found I could hardly bear to look at him. ‘Caleb, don’t do this. You know what you’re saying isn’t true.’
‘I don’t trust lawyers.’
‘Douglas knows about things like this.’
‘People only take lawyers seriously because of how they look,’ Caleb declared next. ‘I’ve seen him. He looks like Dad. Same flappy robes. It’s ridiculous.’
We sat in stony silence. All the police statements that I’d never been able to read kindled my emotions. Why had Caleb been so unhappy? Had whatever made Stephen leave me also infected Caleb? Would people always turn from me?
Eventually, I stood. Douglas Anderson was due to arrive soon. I needed to meet him outside, to warn him Caleb might refuse to fight.
‘Mum,’ Caleb said, as I was leaving, ‘you’ll remember to feed Pattern for me while I’m in here, won’t you? Sean can’t always do it anymore and Rosie forgets.’
Outside, Stephen had left. I leaned against the wall, waiting for Douglas. I’d thought hearing people call Caleb an arsonist was the worst thing that could possibly happen. But his reaction was so much worse. I missed his goth days, when at least he had a passion. That eyeball ring, the lip piercing scars, the fading hair, were all that was left of that.
Douglas arrived, almost on time, dressed not in robes but in a regular business suit. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Caleb is not fine. He doesn’t have the slightest interest in defending himself. He doesn’t care about anything. I want you to get him bail.’
Douglas nodded. ‘Stephen has briefed me. And your mother has agreed to cover costs. She’s suspicious of the entire investigation.’
Well, that was one thing.
‘I think we’re ready to go.’ Douglas added something about legal appeals we could make if Caleb was found guilty. Appeals that I recorded before turning a page in my notebook. Of course, the evidence against Caleb was all circumstantial. This didn’t mean it wouldn’t stick. I’d lived with lawyers and knew how justice worked.
We went back through security. Douglas played with gold cufflinks protruding from his pinstripe sleeve as we walked back to the visitors’ room.
‘Stephen tells me you’re one of Melbourne’s best lawyers,’ I said.
‘That’s gratifying to hear from a colleague.’
‘Caleb wants to be a lawyer. Wanted. He could be a lawyer. He gets good enough grades. Got.’
Douglas rested his hand on the door and looked at me, with all the sincerity he could muster. ‘We’ll get your boy his future back. You have to keep faith.’
‘Stephen says Caleb is his own worst enemy.’
‘He should keep those thoughts to himself,’ Douglas said grimly. ‘This doesn’t mean he was Brunton’s.’
‘But how can I help him? What does he need?’
Douglas reconsidered the door and led me to a nearby seat. ‘I liked what you said when we met, about stories. The prosecution will present one story. One version of where Caleb was and what happened that day. We need to present another one. An alibi is still his best hope. You need to focus on who might have seen him during the time he was away from Penelope.’
‘Everyone had evacuated. Except Rosie Henderson.’
‘Have you gone back to Rosie?’
I sighed. ‘She won’t help.’
‘We need to hear more from Caleb.’
This was the closest I ever came to despair. Caleb’s refusal to clear himself was swinging more and more closely to an admission of guilt. At least he’d only expressed that to me. So far.
In the visitors’ room, Douglas tried his best. ‘Let me explain a few things to you, Caleb.’
I raised my pen, ready to note this down.
‘They need to prove mens rea. That means they need to prove you had criminal intent,’ Douglas spoke slowly.
Caleb looked evasive.
‘Our best defence will be going on the attack. For example, we can mention other fires that day. An electrical fault caused the Gippsland fire – why shouldn’t it be the same here? So you need to tell me if you saw anything that day that made you suspicious. You agree?’
I imagined I could see Caleb’s thoughts. He snarled. He was over this. Totally, totally over it. ‘I’m not a pyromaniac,’ he said. ‘Pyromaniacs don’t like sex. They like fires. I like girls. You need to check with Penelope.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Douglas demanded. ‘What do you know about pyromaniacs? Where do you get this information?’
Caleb looked indignant. ‘From Law and Order. In an episode online. They researched it really carefully.’
Douglas sighed. Helplessness wafted over me like smoke. Law and Order. But Douglas brushed it aside. Perhaps he was used to clients speaking like this. ‘They aren’t saying you’re a pyromaniac,’ he said simply. ‘They’re saying you wanted revenge on Penelope’s parents. I need to know how you’d describe your relationship with them.’
‘That’s simple. I didn’t have one. Not anymore. Not after the accident. People knew the truth about that no matter what Mum did. They didn’t trust me.’
No matter what Mum did. For a moment, I had nothing but my despair. Caleb clearly knew how I’d made sure his urine test was lost. It wasn’t just guilt he felt about the car accident, but anger at me. I thought again about the devastated landscape. Had Caleb stood there and decided to…
No. Waves of frustration and fear buffeted me. Last time I felt like this was back at Jack’s house, watching fire approach. Outside, I rounded on Douglas. ‘We have to make him defend himself.’
‘It’s not that simple. If Caleb eventually decides to plead guilty, it will count against him at sentencing if we fight now. The court will say he showed a lack of remorse.’
‘He won’t ever plead guilty. He can’t feel remorse. He didn’t do this.’
Douglas checked his watch, like he had another client he needed to see. And perhaps he did. ‘The newspaper articles, the press conferences, the police statements,’ I said. ‘Can’t you make them stop?’
‘I’ve seen cases like this before, Phoebe. Once Caleb spoke to the press himself, he opened the floodgates.’
‘They’re openly accusing Caleb. Surely it’s slander? Libel?’
‘I’ve already made all the claims I can, Phoebe. You’ll notice the police are being quieter. That more news stories say allegedly. We’ll raise the issue if we need to. On appeal.’
‘On appeal?’ I froze. ‘You mean if he’s found guilty?’
‘Isn’t that what you mean?’
‘It can’t get to that stage.’
There’d been other torments. Back in Hawthorn, Caleb had been accused of a minor drug deal. I’d been called in the middle of the night. He was at the police station. He’d gone there himself, seeking safety. A bunch of his mates were involved. It had started small and grown out of control, and Caleb wanted out. We left Hawthorn, to get him away from the wrong friends. At least there had been friends. Here, apart from loose friendships like Ethan, he had only Penelope, even though his connection to the town ran so much deeper than mine. Other people Caleb met were the children of Stephen’s friends.
That evening, I emailed Penelope as Caleb had requested and asked, one more time, for her help. Perhaps she knew a way to make him speak.
Finally, she replied. She said to tell Caleb she was all right and she’d write him a letter soon, and added, Ms Wharton, I know you’re invested in the case. I agree with you. Caleb needs to defend himself. You might not know everything he’s been doing so I thought you might like to see these…
She included screenshots of a thread on the Goth Chat page that must have been private. I hadn’t seen it before.
Crow: I think I’ve worked something out. We might have a celebrity in our midst. Of a kind anyway. If PastelPlaything is Penelope Gordon, does that mean Onyx is actually Caleb Wharton? The firebug?
PastelPlaything: Onyx is NOT a firebug. He has reasons of his own for behaving the way he does.
ACantha: Oooh, I’m not sure how to interpret that.
PastelPlaything: Sandulf, this could be sub judice.
Crow: Subjudy-WHAT? Your vocabulary is Impressive, Little Goth Girl. Are you as rich and privileged as your arsonist friend?
Onyx: I am not an arsonist.
PastelPlaything: Onyx is a decent human being who protected me that day and is still trying to protect people.
ACantha: Are you ready for jail?
PastelPlaything: Stop this conversation! There are libel laws you know! Sandulf!!!
Sandulf: These comments are now locked for legal reasons.
Still trying to protect people? What did that mean? Penelope wasn’t talking about herself. I didn’t need protecting. Who else might Caleb love? In despair because no matter how much I scoured the internet, there would always be parts of it I couldn’t see, I sent an email demanding Penelope explain the comments, and tapped my keyboard impatiently when she didn’t reply immediately. Deep in thought, I printed the comments out, checked them again. Onyx was Caleb, caught proclaiming his innocence as he refused to proclaim it in court. How could I turn this into evidence? The kids themselves were talking about law. Stephen might actually be able to help me here.